The Art Of Recollection
by BellatrixLestrangey
Summary: Fresh out of the Forgetful Valley, Azula tries to remember who she is.


She could see the face but couldn't recognize it and couldn't put a name to it. She touched her own cheek, just to make sure the face really does belong to her. She ran a hand through her hair and watched it fall in a thick silky wave over her shoulder. She must have brushed it time and time again, but she couldn't recall ever doing so. Still she wasn't convinced, so brushed her fingers carefully over her lips, watching as her reflection imitated her perfectly.

That face. Those fingers.

They were hers.

So why couldn't she remember them? Her stomach fluttered with unease, but she didn't know why. Why should she care? What if her memories were dreadful? What if the person who once owned the face in the mirror was awful? There had to be a reason…

She moved to the bathtub and tested the water. It was slightly more than warm. That wasn't satisfactory so she waited. She also couldn't remember how long it took the springs to heat the bath. This gave her even more time to study the foreign face.

Perhaps if she stared long enough, she'd get used to it.

She noticed a shift in her mood, a sudden anger. She wondered briefly if it was because she didn't like her appearance. For all the time that had stared at her reflection, she had never actually formed an opinion on it. She took a moment to consider and decided that she was content with what she was seeing.

Her hair was a little tousled and could use some washing. Her skin, somewhat pale and also in need of the bath she was about to take. She decided that she liked the shape of her eyes and their soft golden hue. She pursed her lips, she liked them well enough as well. Her features were softer than she'd like though. As far as she knew, she'd always been fond of shaper facial features—strong cheek bones and the like. She didn't have that, herself. All in all, though, she supposed she was decently pretty.

All the same anger still lingered. Finally, she found the source. It wasn't for lack of liking her reflection nor that she couldn't recollect the life the person who owned it had lived. It was that she didn't know why she couldn't remember. And that it frustrated her, much worse than her failing memory.

She dipped her hand into the water again and found it to her satisfaction. So she immersed the rest herself within it.

In the bath it become obvious that, just like her face, her own body had become so unfamiliar to her. To the point where she often found herself discovering new things about it. A birth mark on her hip, a freckle near her shoulder blade, a small scar on her knee—probably from something she'd done as a child. She tried with everything she had to bring forth the moment she got it, but the memory wouldn't surface.

She continued running the soap over her shoulders, she had taken most of the day's grime off of her skin. She had to admit that It felt strange to wash a body she was still getting used to, still didn't entirely recognize. Somehow, she felt like she was violating something. Like her body wasn't hers to touch. How could it be when she didn't even know her own name…no one bothered to tell her, perhaps they thought she knew it. She moved her hand down her leg leaving a trail of soap in its wake. She brought her hand up to her face, examining it again. Her nails were perfectly manicured, flames of a brilliant blue fit perfectly in her palm. She examined her hand more than anything else—and perhaps people would think it strange—but she did it anyways because it was the easiest thing to study. She could stare down at them when she at the dinner table, in between conversations in the throne room, or lying awake. Her hands had become the most acquainted to her, especially when they held fire. The fire just seemed to be so naturally her. She didn't know why, she just knew. But that was all she had to work with.

She gripped the side of the tub; just what had she done? How had she managed to obliterate her memory? She runs her hand through her hair in confused annoyance. She massaged the soap onto her cheeks and then splashed water over her face to clear the suds away. She sighed, baths had become one of her favorite things. They were very relaxing. She wondered if she always liked them. She leaned back and let her head rest on the back of the tub. She closed her eyes, basking in the steamy heat. She breathed in the scent of soap and a soft touch of lavender. All was quiet except for the soothing bubbling of the water.

And in the midst of the near quiet, it came out of nowhere.

But at last she had one.

A name.

Her name.

She said it out loud, just to test it on her lips.

Azula.

She is Azula.


End file.
